A Little More Tequila
by Ice Cube1
Summary: PL Wynter's challenge from Feb. 20th...What if Sam and Dean had Max's childhood? So there are major warnings for fairly graphic abuse and language...and small spoilers for the episode Nightmare 1x14...
1. Dean

**Title: A Little More Tequila…**

**Author: Ice Cube**

**Rating: T just to be safe…deals with images of child abuse, and a liberal use of rather profane language…**

**Spoilers: For the episode Nightmare…**

**Disclaimer: Right, if I owned them anywhere outside of my dreams, the characters that are forthwith mentioned in this story would be making me a lot of money and very happy…so no, they aren't mine, and I'm a broke college student who has no money, so if you're going to sue, feel free, you won't get anything.**

**Characters: Sam, Dean, John**

**Archives: Feel free; just let me know where so I can find it again.**

**Summary: PL Wynter's challenge: What if Sam** **and Dean** **had Max**'**s childhood?**

**Warnings: To re-iterate, there will be some graphic images of child abuse portrayed in this…so if that is going to upset you, please be warned. Also, I tend to write my stories as if they were a series, even though each one is a standalone, there are certain prefaces that I stick to…this _will_ go against everything I've written previously about John…occasionally a drunk, yes, but I never believed him to be abusive to his boys…not to this extent especially.**

**To those who think that I am capable of writing a fic that is torture free…I can't, and thus, if you don't want to see h/c, various possible tortures, and other forms of angst, find another story. Also, to those of you looking for slash, when I mean friendship and brotherhood, I take that in the trust you with my life and have no problem telling you about my current crush who is of the opposite sex way. In other words, if you're looking for slash, you won't find it here. **

**I don't have my stories beta'd, I'm too impatient to wait for someone to proof it after I've written it, so I apologize for any mistakes, and if you email me to tell me that they're there, I'll fix them later. Reviews are always a plus, it's great to know that people are reading my stories and like them, but as I'm a horrible reviewer, I won't hold my breath for them. Flames, however, will be treated with the utmost respect they deserve…they will be ignored completely or poked fun at with friends.**

**That said, on with the tale…

* * *

**

"_A little more tequila…a little less demon hunting…"_

Sam Winchester, 1x14 Nightmare

* * *

Chapter 1 

Dean knew how to be a good big brother, just like the other boys in his class. He knew how to tie Sam's shoes and how to make sure no one picked on him at school. Just like his classmates, he knew how to teach the baby of the family everything he needed to survive. Unfortunately, those things didn't include how to throw a football so it didn't look like a girl had tossed it, or why girls really did have cooties, or even why baseball was such a fun game. No; ten-year old Dean Winchester was too busy teaching Sam how to hide under the bed behind the old boxes so that no one could tell he was there. He had perfected his baby brother's talent for climbing out the second story window into the old oak tree near their room, and had reminded the boy constantly that his big brother loved him and would always protect him. Sam knew all this, and he was only a whopping six years old.

The only problem with this was that Dean wasn't protecting little Sammy from monsters in the closet or teaching him how to be the best in his class at hide-and-seek, even if the boy was indeed that. Dean had to protect Sam; his mother had told him that the night she died. Before they had gone in to Sam's nursery to kiss him goodnight, she had sat down with the four-year old and taught him all about being a big brother. It was the last pleasant memory Dean had.

* * *

Six-year old Sam Winchester knew to wait down by the bus stop after the bus dropped him off until Dean had checked to make sure the coast was clear. He knew that if Dean came back right away then he could make it up to the bedroom they shared without incident. He also knew that if his brother didn't come back right away that he was not to move from his hiding spot unless it got dark. And if that happened, he knew how to climb that old oak tree to the window and when he got inside to immediately hide under the bed if he didn't see anyone in the room. These were necessary rules and the small boy didn't question them; he knew better. There were monsters at night that wanted to hurt him, and if Dean couldn't help him, he'd be safe under the bed. That's what his older brother had told him, and the ten-year old would never lie to Sam. They got enough of that from their father.

* * *

The bus ride home was quiet as usual for the two boys huddled in the front seat. Dean's black eye from recess was starting to swell his eye shut, but he didn't even notice anymore. He knew that his father was going to be pissed that he'd gotten into another fight, but it was worth it. Some of his classmates had cornered Sam and were pushing him around, trying to get a hold of the younger boy's lunch box. They had started pulling the long locks that John could never be bothered to get cut for the first grader, and when Sam had cried out in pain, Dean had snapped. No one he could stop would ever hurt his little brother. Not ever. He saw that often enough at home. 

The four boys were nursing far more cuts and bruises than the elder Winchester boy, and Sam had gotten away unscathed, but they both knew as soon as their father got the message that he had to accompany Dean to school tomorrow, it wouldn't look as though he had won the fight quite so decisively. Just another excuse for the man to not have to be careful.

Sam waited for the bus to turn the corner and scampered into the bushes, nodding to Dean that he would wait right there. A book in his lap and a small jack knife fisted in his hand just in case, the small boy settled down to wait, hoping that he wouldn't have to wait long. It was starting to get cold out again.

With a sigh, Dean scurried home, praying to whoever would listen that his father would still be at work. He knew that there was no way out of facing the music, so to speak, but he could hope that the man would at least be gone until Sam was sleeping. He hated the look on his little brother's face every time Sam had to help patch him up.

The key to the house was turned, and the doorknob was opened. Dean gasped and had to take three steps back, falling down the small set of steps that led to their house as his father was standing right there. The boy landed hard on his back and pain shot up his wrist, but the man in front of him never noticed. Before he could register what was going on, Dean was hauled to his feet by a burly hand fisted in his sweatshirt, and thrown through the front door. He crashed into the wall behind him and slid to the ground slowly. The sound of the door locking chilled him to the bone. His father had never met him at the door before, and the bolt sliding into its place seemed to have a solid air of finality to it.

"Where the Hell is your brother?" The clarity in the tall man's words frightened Dean even more. He hadn't even started drinking yet.

"He's…over at Tommy's for the afternoon. Remember? You told him last night before bed that he could go." John had done no such thing, having passed out on the sofa sometime before dinner, but Dean knew the man wouldn't remember either way.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me, young man. Of course I knew that…wanted to make sure you hadn't dumped the little bastard somewhere. Too many questions if he disappeared after all."

Dean almost scoffed at his father. Almost. Instead he just nodded and stared at the floor like he'd been taught. You never looked at someone superior to you. Not in the eyes, or they could see every weakness that betrayed you.

Dean found himself on his feet too fast for his head to catch up as John dragged him up and out of the hallway. Tossed into the kitchen, hitting the floor once more, Dean couldn't stop the yelp as his arm caught most of his fall.

"Still a little weakling, aren't you, Dean?"

Dean just gulped and pushed himself to his knees, his head bowed. He looked like one of the altar boys that he had seen at his mother's funeral.

"Answer me, damn it. I taught you more respect than that. Are you still weak?"

"Yes, sir," Dean mumbled, knowing better than to go against whatever his father said.

"And you thought a good way to show it was to get into a fight at school? To get your ass kicked _and _get caught so that _I_ have to miss a God damned day of work to get your ass back into school tomorrow?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah, well sorry doesn't cut it, now does it, you little shit?"

"No sir," Dean wished his father would at least open a bottle of something. It would make all of this easier. Mainly because he could recall times when his father was just like other dads; tossing a football around with him and Sam, making them lunches when he remembered. And there was that one time the year before when little Sammy had gotten the chicken pox and given them to Dean that the boy could remember their father sitting with them through the night. At least when he was drunk, John's actions could be excused.

It seemed that Dean should be careful what he wished for, because just then his father began to rummage through the cabinets and pulled out a handle of his favorite drink. Dean could tell the difference between tequila and whiskey already, and knew that the former meant he was going to be in more pain tomorrow than if John had only found the Jack Daniels.

Half a bottle was gone before Dean risked a look up to make sure he was still expected to be kneeling there. His legs had gone numb, but all he could think of was how numb his baby brother must be, waiting in the dusk and worrying that Dean hadn't come back for him yet. Unfortunately, John had taken just that moment to contemplate how best to punish the brat at his feet, and saw the look as one of defiance. Glaring down at the boy, he backhanded Dean, watching in satisfaction as his offspring face-planted into the cracked tile once more.

Dean was slow to push himself up, and had to bite back a cry when he was lifted back to his knees by his hair. Blood trickled down from his nose and lip, and his bright eyes were dulled and cast away from his father's face.

"You don't even want to look at your own father now? Do you have that little respect for me?" Unfortunately for Dean, the words still weren't slurred enough to signal his father's impending unconscious state, and the boy could only hope that John got bored soon.

"I didn't want to disappoint you by looking weak, sir." The words were whispered, but they were exactly what John needed to hear to back off on that particular sticking point.

"Good. I wouldn't want to see what a sniveling brat I've raised." John stood up straight and shoved his son one more time, sending the boy crashing to the floor and into the leg of the kitchen table. A swift kick to Dean's side left a resonating crack echoing in the air, and masked the boy's groan. "Now get upstairs. I don't want to see you again until tomorrow morning. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir." Dean didn't take a minute to catch his breath around the sharp pain in his chest, but stumbled to his feet and bolted down the hall and up the stairs. The door was locked before he allowed himself to sink back to the ground and let the tears fall. He was only ten years old, for God's sake; he shouldn't have to endure this.

The beating wasn't nearly the worst Dean had been through, but he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't over yet, not by a long shot unless his father managed to pass out in the next hour or so.

The sun was setting slowly as Dean remained curled against the wall, biting back the pain of cracked ribs that was trying to force him to sleep. He had to stay awake to hear what his father was doing. If the man did succumb to the drink, then Dean could go get Sam before dark. Otherwise, he was going to have to wait for the boy to make it home on his own. The ten-year old wasn't sure which thought scared him more.

* * *

Sam could tell something was wrong when the pages in his book were flying by far too quickly for his liking. At six years old, the boy didn't yet have the best sense of time passage, but his brother had definitely been gone for too long. He stifled another shiver as the sun set slowly to his watch-side. _Left_, the boy thought, trying to remember what Dean had taught him about his left and right. As long as the watch was on his left wrist, the boy could remember which way was which. Now if only he could master his shoes. 

Sam was bored. His teachers had said that he had a longer attention span than most of the children in his class, but he was still only in first grade, and could only occupy himself for so long. It seemed that the sun was dropping more and more slowly towards the horizon, and the temperature was dropping that much more quickly. The little sweatshirt only provided so much protection, meant more to hide the bruises that Sam didn't want Dean or his teachers to see.

An hour of trying to make the bunny story into a tied shoe, and then trying the 'loop, swoop, and pull' method that his ever-practical brother had tried to show him, and Sam couldn't sit still any longer. He was afraid, and the feeling in his stomach made him jumpy. He wanted to run around and try to escape the butterflies, but he knew better than to move.

And he didn't move. Not until it was too dark to see the words in his book, too dark for the streetlights to remain off, too dark for the boy's fears to remain hidden. As soon as the light in front of him cast its glow down onto the pavement, Sam was checking the street to make sure no one would see him, and then was on his feet.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he knew that it was a mistake when he realized what had awoken him. The pounding on the wood behind him was frantic and angry, and the ten-year old could only imagine what the face that was hidden behind it looked like. 

"Dean Winchester, open this God damned door right now! I swear, if you don't, I'll break it down."

The boy gulped, unsure of what to do. His father's words were badly slurred by this time, but they hadn't reached the point of incomprehensibility, and so there was no hope for a lack of attention. And a quick glance at the darkened sky outside his window shot even more fear into his heart. Sam would be climbing through that window soon. He had to get his father out of here.

"Now, damn it!" Dean pulled himself to his feet and bit his lip. Quickly, the latch was thrown and he tried to slip out the door into the hall.

He had no such luck. As soon as the door was unlocked, his father was jamming his way into the room, throwing the light switch on as he did so. Dean was grabbed around his collar again; _how hasn't that ripped yet?_ He was then thrown onto his bed.

_At least it wasn't the floor this time._ Dean pushed himself back into the corner of his bed, wondering what had sparked this new punishment.

"I just called Tommy's mom to see if she wanted me to pick Sam up." Dean's eyes widened, and not only because he was caught lying. _He actually was going to drive Sammy_ _home this drunk?_

"Yes sir."

"And do you know what she told me?"

Dean curled up into an even smaller ball. "No sir," he whispered.

"She hasn't seen Samuel in weeks. Was wondering how he was. You told me that's where you dropped him off. Did you lie to me?"

Dean had no idea how to get out of this one. Apparently, however, it was a rhetorical question, because his father had lifted him up so they were face to face. Breathing in the smell of tequila, the boy shuddered before being tossed to the floor under the window. Landing hard, he felt the familiar pangs of nausea assault him. If his wrist hadn't been broken beforehand, it certainly was now.

"I spend my hard-earned money raising the two of you. I put a roof over your head and food in your mouths," Dean actually did scoff at this, but the drunken man didn't hear, only continued ranting. "I take care of the two of you after your mother was killed, murdered by something and left her on the _ceiling_, and all you two can do is spite me at every turn. You're lying to me, or Sammy's lying to you, which I doubt by the way; neither of you listens to me. You're getting in trouble in school. What the Hell do I do with the two of you?"

At some point during the ramblings, Dean stopped being able to understand what the man in front of him was saying, but he definitely picked up on the last mumble. He would later swear that he was possessed by something, but he finally snapped at the man in front of him. "You could try being our father, instead of a monster."

And he regretted it immediately. His father's foot found his side more quickly than anyone's should with that much tequila, and if it weren't for the wall, Dean was sure he would have gone flying. His father apparently thought he should have as well, because Dean found the closet door soon enough. Curled around his ribs once more, Dean dared to let a single tear slide, unchecked, down his face. Another kick sent the boy very close to the edge of consciousness itself, but a small face in the window that was now in his line of sight kept the darkness at bay for a second longer. The widened eyes relaxed as the youngest Winchester scrambled back down the roof towards the old oak.

John noticed his son's gaze being drawn from him and whipped around. Faster than either boy could imagine, the libertine had crossed the room. The last thing Dean saw was his father throwing open the window and dragging a squirming Sam through it.

**TBC...**

* * *

**So look, I'm back! Only not really, since I've been writing this story since...forever, and it's just now finished. But never fear, it is finished, so I will be able to update fairly regularly...and hopefully write more regularly now that I'm a bonafide college graduate...going back to school in September. I'm never going into the real world, I swear.**


	2. Sammy

**Reiterating the warnings from the first chapter and the summary just in case...there will be a fair amount of profane language and this story deals with child abuse...keep this in mind...

* * *

**

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you…"  
_Dean Winchester, 1x14 Nightmare

* * *

Chapter 2 

Sam had made it up the oak tree in record time, sure that something was wrong when the bedroom light wasn't on, waiting for him to sneak in. He hid to the side of the window for a few seconds, catching his breath and calming his skittishness. _There's nothing wrong, Dean_ _just fell asleep; that's all. _Gathering up all of his courage, Sam reached for the window, only to jump back as light engulfed his room. Sliding a little ways down the roof, the boy had to catch himself on the shingles and bite back a cry as the baby-soft skin on his palms sheared off. He moved back into the old tree, watching in horror from behind the dying leaves as Dean was tossed around like a rag doll.

Sam waited there, tears tracing down his cheeks, until he couldn't stand watching any more. Dean was being punished because of him, and it was getting too cold in the tree; at least near the window there was less wind. But Sam couldn't take not knowing what was happening as he hid there; he had only meant to peek in and see if the coast was clear yet, but his timing was horrible. Before he knew it, John had dragged him – kicking and screeching – into the room. Sam shook uncontrollably as he was set on his feet, his father's brawny fingers choking him with the grip they had on his sweatshirt.

John smacked his fist across Sam's face and dared the boy to cross him. "Where the Hell have you been?"

Eyes afire, he breathed into his youngest son's face, silencing Dean with a single sideways glance.

"T-Tommy's, s-sir."

Dean would have to give credit to the youngster for being able to speak in general, never mind stick to the lie they were always to fall back on. _Too bad he remembered._

"Don't you fucking lie to me, you miserable little shit. Where…the Hell…were you?" John punctuated the last sentence by shaking Sam's head violently with each pause. "Don't you dare cry, damnit. You and your brother both; I raised a pair of whiny brats, not men. This is all your fault; you understand? Everything. And now you dare cry? I'll teach you."

With that, the man spun Sam around and held him down by the back of his neck against Dean's mattress. He pulled a belt off the bedpost as he glared over at the boy who was only now able to struggle to his feet.

"You sit your ass back down, or I swear I'll beat him within an inch of his life; you hear me boy?" John watched as Dean slid back to the floor, the hazel eyes never unlocking from his baby brother's blue orbs. "Weak, just like I thought. You know this is your belt that's going to teach Sammy here about lying, don't you Dean? Big brothers should teach their little brothers everything, don't you think, Tiger?"

Dean didn't even look at him, trying to convey his strength to Sam.

"What was that, shithead?"

"Yes, sir." His eyes still didn't move.

"That's better. You hear that, Samuel? Your brother's teaching you why you shouldn't lie to people. It's all him, you understand. All him."

Stuck bent over at the waist from his father's crushing grip, Sam's feet just barely reached the floor. All he could do was keep his eyes focused on Dean and try to keep his tears from angering his father further. There was nothing more embarrassing to the boy than being punished in front of Dean.

Each time the leather bit across Sam's jeans and sweatshirt, the older boy wanted to curse and kill his father. He wanted nothing more than to tackle the man to the ground and beat _him_ until he passed out. But even if he had a chance to try, Dean's ten years of growth had nothing on the ex-marine, and he knew it would only be worse for his baby brother. All he could do was sit on the floor and wait to pick up the pieces. He had to marvel though. Twelve strokes in and Sam still hadn't uttered a sound, just kept staring at Dean. The older boy widened his focus and let his heart break as he watched his little brother's shin kicking the metal of the bed frame. Each time his father hit him, Sam hurt himself just a little more, and used that to ignore what was happening. It was something no six-year old should have discovered how to do.

When it was all over, both boys were crying, and John was on the verge of passing out. He threw the belt into Dean's lap, watching with delight as the boy recoiled from it as if the leather would burn him, and threw Sam onto his own bed.

"Now both of you get to sleep," he slurred. "I'll deal with you and your school tomorrow, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

It only took until the door had latched for Dean to be on his feet and racing to the bed. He carefully rolled the boy into a sitting position and pulled the torn shirts over Sam's head, biting back the nausea at the bruises that were already starting to form. Sam was shivering and he was covered in sweat, but Dean knew from experience that the chills were a far cry better than having anything touching those welts right now. Lifting his brother carefully up by the armpits, he painstakingly situated them both in each other's embrace without hurting the other. And the hug set off the waterworks again as Sam sobbed into Dean's chest and Dean let the tears fall silently into Sam's hair. 

There was no telling how long the two sat there, plans of running away and of using John's own weapons against him rampant in the elder's mind. They didn't dare leave the safety of the room until they knew John was out for the count; they had learned that lesson already. But when Dean heard the thump of six feet of muscle landing in the kitchen, to be left there until the sun rose and a new day in Hell began, he slowly rose from the bed, bringing a now-sleeping Sam into the bathroom to clean them both up.

And Sam didn't stir as the few welts that were angry enough to bleed were cleaned. He didn't move as Dean looked at his own face in the cracked mirror and thought idly about how many years bad luck he was in from the time his head had broken the glass. The younger boy didn't wake up until the two were safely back in the bedroom and Dean had changed him from soiled jeans to clean sweatpants; the closest things the boys had to pajamas.

"Why does Daddy hate me, Dean?" The question was whispered, as if speaking aloud would incur further wrath.

"He doesn't hate you, little brother." _Okay, so he probably does, but there's no reason for it, Sammy._

"Yes he does, Dean. He hates me and he says everything's all my fault. I didn't mean for Mommy to die, Dean. I swear I didn't."

_Oh, you God forsaken bastard,_ John had at least taught the boys one thing – his colorful tongue left a lasting impression on Dean at least – _I'll kill you for this one day._ "I know you…"

"You don't hate me for killing Mommy too, do you Dean?" The look in Sam's eyes was a mix between absolute terror and more anxiety than his older brother had ever seen him grace on John.

"Sammy. God, little brother, I am so sorry. I'm…I'm…God, Sammy, what makes you think I could ever hate you for anything? And you didn't kill Mom. It wasn't anyone's fault. I…I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean didn't know what to do with the boy, didn't know how he had made Sam think he could do anything but love the little brat.

"Daddy said that…you said that…Daddy…I…" Sam broke into sniffles and tears again, burying his face into Dean's shoulder and mumbling something about not meaning to lie.

Dean just curled around Sam and rocked him, mumbling over and over how he loved Sam and that it wasn't his fault; apologizing throughout the mix until Sam's breathing evened out and he fell into a light sleep.

* * *

Morning brought new waves of pain as Sam's head was pressed down on bruised – if not worse – ribs, and Dean's arm was thankfully numb, although that wouldn't last long. Reaching for the alarm before it could annoy their father from sleep; Dean slowly sat the two of them up, waking Sam slowly from whatever nightmare held him this time. 

Breakfast was made and eaten, and sweatshirts were painfully donned before John moved from where he had fallen on the kitchen floor, the previous night forgotten to the tequila in his veins.

"We're leaving in five minutes, Dean. Get your brother to the bus and get your ass back here before then."

"Yes sir."

* * *

"How come I don't get to ride in the car too, Dean?" 

"We don't have time, Sammy. I gotta get back home in two minutes. Are you going to be okay waiting for the bus by yourself?"

Sam looked at the fifth-graders grouped around the street sign, gulped, and nodded slowly. "I'll be okay."

"Just stay quiet and out of their way, okay little brother?"

"Just like with Daddy. Is Daddy a bully too?"

Dean just nodded before turning to sprint for home.

* * *

"I thought I told you five minutes?" 

Dean scoffed as he looked down at his watch and counted the last four seconds to five minutes from front door to front door. "Sorry, sir." _I was less than five minutes, jerk._

"You'd better be sorry. Get in the car."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Dean wasn't sure which was worse: his father angry, loud and drunk, or his father silent, plotting and fuming. The car trip was punctuated with glances into the rearview mirror; glances that the boy did his best to avoid, trying not to move or even breathe the entire ride. All he knew was that when they finally pulled into the school parking lot, he had never been happier to see the brick building. 

To Dean, on most days, school meant six hours of boredom in classes that sought to teach him about math and reading. These things didn't matter to him as long as he could figure out how to keep his little brother from getting hurt anymore. Those were the things he needed to learn. School did mean, however, that for six hours he was completely unable to protect Sam from the other children – and that he would be safe from their father. It was a mix of confusion and anxiety, boredom and fear, all rolled into one so that the ten-year old spent most of his day trying to decide if he was better or worse off being in school.

Today, however, school meant that for six hours he wouldn't have to deal with his father. It would mean six hours of protection for himself as well. It would mean six hours for his father to work off the hangover and let the memories of last night slide into the dark recesses of his mind. If there was one bright spot to his father's punishments, it was that the man never seemed to remember them once the boys had been out of his sight for awhile.

But first, he had to convince the principal that he wasn't going to "be a threat to anyone else or himself" in order to remain in school. He had to sit with her and make promises in front of his father that he knew he would break in a heartbeat if it meant choosing between those decrees and his baby brother's well-being. Even if it meant he was going to suffer the consequences for fighting – both through the school and at home – again. And again, and again.

So when Dean led his father through the hallways, past the first-grade rooms and into the main office, he was not paying attention to where he was, rather, he was practicing how to look like an innocent fifth-grader who had only had his brother's interest in mind and he was sure to go and get a teacher the next time. Not that he believed a word of it, but that wasn't important.

* * *

Dean's smooth talking and baby-faced pouts had won the principal over once more, decrees that he was "just looking out for his baby brother" had the woman eating out of his hand. With a promise to "find a teacher next time" – complete with 'yeah right' muttered under his breath – the boy thought he was golden until the door to the office was opened for him. There were several students sitting in the reception area, heads bowed in either fear or sleep. The sight was common for the office, and normally wouldn't have given Dean cause to even spare them a second glance. 

And he still didn't need a second glance – he'd recognize that mop of hair anywhere. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't need another second to register his brother's voice, simply jumped from his chair and ducked under his teacher's restraining arm. He had made it within feet of Dean, arms outstretched, when John appeared. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, almost tripping over his own feet in the process.

"Samuel?"

"Yes sir."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Mr. Winchester?" Sam's teacher spoke up before her student could.

"Yes?" Dean hadn't picked up his innocent glances from just anywhere – his father was an old pro at it.

"I brought Sam down here because I'm a little bit concerned. I found some pretty severe bruising on the back of his neck this morning and when I asked him, he wouldn't tell me how it got there."

Dean's eyes squeezed shut as his brother's head dropped guiltily.

"If you'll look just here, Mr. Winchester, you can see what I'm talking about." She gently brushed Sam's long hair away from his neck and Dean cringed. How were they going to get out of this one?

"Quite frankly, sir, this isn't the first time Sam has been injured like this, but usually he has no problem letting me know what's going on. Boys will be boys after all, and I'm sure playing with your older brother's friends can be pretty abusive to a six-year old's knees and elbows. But this is the first time he's refused, and this looks pretty painful."

"I'm sure it is, ma'am." Dean caught the gleam in his father's eyes that assured he was plotting something, and the ten-year old was sure that neither boy was going to like it. "I'm afraid I didn't see that this morning. Sammy, tell your teacher where that came from."

Sam's eyes widened and he looked directly to Dean. Falling down playing football explained bruises on his shins. Getting hit with a stick playing street hockey explained ones on his arms or even his back. But how was the boy supposed to explain how he hurt the back of his neck?

"Go ahead and tell the truth now, son. We're waiting." Their father looked like a cat that had trapped a mouse and was playing with it – pretending to offer its prey a way out before snatching it backwards and tossing it back into the air.

Sam blanched. He was smart enough to know that the truth was never a viable option here. The truth would just get him and his brother both hurt. He knew the offered way out was just for his father's entertainment. "I…uhh…I…well, it's like this…I, uhh…"

"I did it." Dean's confession was hushed to just the right level of guilt to broker no doubt. He stared unwaveringly at Sam, silently begging him to play along.

"What?" Clearly the boys' principal couldn't believe that the same boy she had almost suspended for fighting four other boys to protect his little brother could have caused such damage to the same boy.

"I did it. We were fooling around after dinner and wrestling. I must've pinned him harder than I thought when we fell off the couch. I'm so sorry, Sammy."

Sam looked straight at his father, hurt, and dropped his head. He had never hated the man more for making his brother come up with that lie.

"Is that what happened, Sam?"

Sam sniffled. "Yes, Mrs. Cassidy. I didn't want Dean to get in any more trouble, so I didn't say anything."

"We'll talk about this when you get home, Dean. I can't believe you. You're supposed to protect Sammy – not hurt him. Are you listening to me? Dean? Hey! I'm talking to you, son." John grabbed onto Dean's arm to spin him around, but no one was more surprised than he was when his oldest yelped and dropped to the ground clutching the same arm.

"Dean?" Sam ran to his brother as the principal backed John away and knelt next to her students.

"Let me see what's wrong. Did your father just hurt you?"

"No," Dean ground out as he backed away from the prying hands and tried to get Sam to help him stand.

"Dean Winchester, you let me see your arm right now, young man."

Backed into the corner like he was, Dean could see no other way out but to comply. He slowly extended his arm, never taking his gaze off the man who had done this to him.

Even Sam paled when Dean's sleeve was pushed up to his elbow. The swollen, bruised mass that was his forearm grabbed the stares of everyone in the room, including Dean himself. He hadn't wanted to do anything other than start forgetting the arm as soon as possible this morning.

"Jesus," Sam's teacher whispered, and both boys caught a glimpse of their father feeling guilty before he masked that with faked concern.

"Dean, when did this happen?" The principal was trying her hardest to fit the pieces together, but two boys with years' experience in hiding their abuse were already several steps ahead of her.

"Yesterday. In the fight." He spoke quickly and angrily, as if upset with himself for getting into the predicament in the first place.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

The fifth grader shrugged. "I was in enough trouble already."

The principal shook her head before looking at John. "And you didn't notice any of this?"

* * *

**TBC...****

* * *

****Last chapter's up next, and it makes the story a little bit less AU to the series...you'll see, in a few days...**


	3. Resolved

"_All things considered, we turned out okay…"  
_ Sam Winchester, 1x14 Nightmare

* * *

Chapter 3 

"Ma'am, I'm a single parent with two jobs. If my son doesn't show me something like that when I see him at dinner time, there's no way I'm able to figure it out if he's rough housing with his brother later on. You saw Dean for a half hour this morning. Did you notice anything wrong with him?"

"No, I suppose I didn't notice anything either. Take both of your boys to the hospital to get checked out today, though. I want to see a doctor's note for each of them tomorrow. That bruise looks nasty as well." She pointed to Sam's neck.

"Of course. Come on, boys. Let's go."

Sam shot a look over to his brother who had paled even more considerably. Gone was the six hours of freedom from their torment. The ones who were supposed to protect them had just sent them straight back into the lion's den. "Yes sir," they chimed in unison.

* * *

"You two had better hope that this doesn't take too long. I have a meeting at one o'clock, and you'd better not make me miss it." John grumbled as he pulled into the local urgent care's parking lot. "You two have those stories straight?" 

"Yes sir."

"Good. Because you know what will happen if some social worker bitch gets the idea that I'm less than the ideal parent for the two of you."

"Yes sir."

"Tell me again, Sammy. What will they do if they find out?"

"They'll take Dean and me away and separate us. They'll send us to orph…orphan…orphanphages…yeah, those…where the other kids'll beat us up and steal our stuff, or worse, and we'll never see each other again."

"And what else, Dean?"

"And we'll never have a family. Ever again."

"Right. Let's go."

The boys piled out of the pristine Chevy Impala, and Dean once again resisted the urge to kick the damned things tires. _At least he takes care of something Mom loved_, he thought glumly as he closed the door softly. Nothing asked for a couple of rounds with his father's belt like slamming the door of the precious car.

* * *

"I just want my brother. Where's Dean? Where's my brother?" 

"Calm down, Sam. You can see your brother just as soon as we take a look at that bruise and get some x-rays. Have you ever had x-rays before? Do you know what they do?"

"Sure, I broke my arm last year on the swings at school, and they took x-rays of it. You could see the bones and stuff. You're gonna take one of my head?"

"Well, of your neck mostly," the pediatric resident smiled, "but I know the tech who's working the radiology department today...I know the woman upstairs," he amended to six-year old terms. "I bet we can manage an x-ray of your head too if you want to see that."

"Why? There won't be anything in my little brother's head, just fluff." Dean's humor wafted around the corner and had Sam off his exam table before the boy was fully in the room.

"Are you okay, Dean?"

"Sure. Takes more than an x-ray or two to beat me down, kiddo."

"Do your doctors know where you are, son?"

Dean stiffened. "No, sir. I'm going back now."

"You'd better."

"Yes sir. Be good for the doctors, Sammy."

* * *

"I will." 

"One unofficial x-ray of a skull coming right up, Ray. You owe me a dinner for this, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. One dinner it is. You hear that, Sammy? Dinner for a picture of your head. I'd say that's fair."

Sam smiled and nodded as he clutched the teddy bear to his chest.

"Now just lay very still for me, okay? There'll be a couple of clicks and I'll be right back in to get you, okay?"

"Yes sir."

"Now Sam, I've told you before. My grandfather gets called sir. My name's just Ray."

"But my father says that…"

"I'm just Ray, Sam. Okay?"

"Ye...Sure, Ray. Okay."

"Good boy. I'll be right back."

* * *

"Look what I got, Dad. It's a picture of my head…from the inside." 

"Something like that, Samuel. Are we free to go now?" John looked annoyed to still be waiting, even though Dean had yet to resurface.

"You are. I'm going to write Sam a note to keep him out of gym classes for a few days until this heals a little more, but there's no evidence of bony damage, and his strength seems fine. Just make sure he ices it down a few times a day, and he can take a few Children's Tylenol a day as well…following the recommended dose on the box."

"Of course. We have some of that back at the house."

"Then, yes. You're free to go. Enjoy that picture, there Sam."

"You bet, Ray."

"Samuel," John growled.

"I mean, thank you, sir." Sam bowed his head and scurried out the door before either man could say something else.

Ray simply looked at the man who commanded, in his opinion, far too much subservience from a six-year old and smiled professionally.

* * *

"That's a cool cast, Dean." Sam was bouncing in the back seat of the Impala as his father growled about the time. It seemed to the boys that someone who growled like a bear as often as their father did should be far more hairy and have far bigger claws. 

"Yeah, it is, Sammy. Much cooler than that ice pack you got." Dean laughed silently at his own pun, playing himself openly into his little brother's hands. He knew what was coming next.

"Yeah, maybe. But look what I got instead. I bet you've never had your own x-ray to keep. And of your head too."

"No, Sammy. That I haven't. That's pretty cool, little brother."

"It's not cool, you brats. It may very well make us late to my meeting. That's all it is. Now I want you two on your best God-damned behavior or else you'll regret it when we get home, do you hear me? Not a word out of either of you. And Samuel, I want you to throw that damned doll away when we get home. Stupid hospital giving my son a teddy bear. It's just going to get in the way, and no son of mine is going to play with a baby's toy. Do you understand me?"

"But Dad…" Sam hugged the bear tighter.

"Samuel!"

"I…Yes sir. I understand."

"Damn right you understand; and you'll understand better when you get home, young man. I thought I told you never to talk back to me. And I thought I told you to call people 'sir' and show them some respect. Seems like after your little show with your doctor today I'm going to have to punish you again to remind you how we should treat our betters."

"Yes sir." Sam had tears in his eyes and was shaking under his brother's embrace. "He asked me to call him Ray, Dean. I didn't mean to make anyone mad." The whisper was hidden under the roaring engine, but Dean heard it all the same.

"Don't worry, Sammy. You didn't do anything wrong. And we'll hide that bear in your pillow at home. Dad won't remember if he doesn't see it, all right?"

"Really, Dean? You don't think it's for babies?"

"You know I hide Scruffy in my pillow every day and Blue-y in yours. He'll never notice."

"Thanks, Dean."

"Any time, little brother. Any time."

"What are you two whispering about back there?" The tone was clipped and startled both boys.

"Just telling Sammy why he should always listen to what you have to say, sir. That's all."

"That better be all, or he'll learn doubly well tonight why."

"Yes sir."

The rest of the car ride was silent, doing nothing to assuage Sam's fears as to what was to come when they finally got home, and sending even more shivers down his back. His father was on a whale of a mean streak right now, and the boys both just wanted to see it end. But when they pulled up to the small two-story house promptly at one o'clock, neither boy could foresee the culmination of the day in anything other than more of their father drinking and them hiding.

"God damn it, I told you boys we'd be late. Get your asses out of the car quickly, and remember – not a sound."

"Yes sir."

* * *

The door opened as John lifted his hand to ring the bell, and even he had to take a step back in the unexpectedness of it. "John, come on in. You're just right on time. And these must be your boys, Sam and Dean." 

"Uhh…yes, that's them. The taller one is…"

"Dean…and this little angel is Sam. Yes I know. You did come to a psychic, after all. Well come in already."

Sam smiled up at the woman, instantly taken with her as she ushered him inside, not forgetting he was there like his father's other friends usually did.

"Well now, let me take a look at the two of you. You're growing up to be fine young men. Strong looking, too." The psychic laid a hand lightly on each of their shoulders nonchalantly, but couldn't stifle the slight gasp, which she turned quickly into a cough.

"My name's Missouri, I'm not sure your father told you. And there's an old swing set out back that you two can go play on while I speak to him. Just be careful, there may be some splinters and such. It's been a while since anyone has played on it."

"Yes, ma'am." The boys hurried off through the front door.

"Now as for you, sir. I know why you've come and what you're aiming for, but you let me tell you something right now, John Winchester. You're here about your wife, and if you want to talk to me about her, than you'd better start thinking about honoring her memory."

John was taken aback and affronted completely. "I do nothing but honor Mary's memory."

"You're going to stand there and lie to a psychic? Those boys are all that you have left of your wife's memory, and you're going to tell me you honor them by beating them to Hell and back like you do? Sure seems like a piss-poor way to honor your wife if you ask me."

"I do no such…"

"John Winchester, I could just slap you. I've seen what you do to those boys. I saw it just now. You mean to tell me that there aren't welts hidden under Sam's sweatshirt that you put there with Dean's belt just last night? And that Dean's ribs aren't just as broken as that wrist of his because you were kicking him around for following your damned orders? You're going to tell me that? You have something to ask me about your wife and what happened to her six years ago, then that's fine, and I'll do my best to answer your questions. But you may just want to think twice about what you're doing to your sons. They don't respect you, John. They're scared to death of you. Too scared to respect you like they would if you would lay off that God-damned drink."

John was speechless. And for the first time in six years, he stopped to look back at his sons, and saw the fear in their eyes, and the distrust whenever he was around. "I…I don't know what I'm doing. I think I'm losing my mind. I keep going back over what happened the night Mary died, and I swear, I'm not hallucinating…I mean, I wasn't hallucinating. But there's no other explanation…"

"Than what, your six-month old son being to blame?"

And John stopped again. Something about this woman just threw everything into a new light. "I guess that does sound pretty ridiculous, doesn't it?"

"Completely. Now, why don't you start at the beginning?"

* * *

"I like her, Dean." Sam sat at the top of the old slide, unsure of whether he really wanted to go down the metal incline now that he had gotten up there. 

"You would, she was all over you…'little angel'. She'd eat you right up if she could."

"She scared Daddy when she opened the door."

"Okay, I'll give her that one, I guess. But she looked at me like I was goofy looking or something."

"You are goofy looking."

"Sam…" Dean growled in warning, but unlike their father's warning, this one just sent Sam into giggles.

* * *

"So your research thus far hasn't led you to any real clues?" 

"No, and that's the thing. I can't find any type of precedence for it, no rhyme or reason, but I know my wife was on that ceiling, and I know her belly was slashed way open. And I know that the fire came from where she was pinned. I wasn't delusional, and I wasn't drunk. I'd been sober for five years when this happened. Mary wouldn't have kids with me until I gave it up."

"I believe you. Things like this, they really do happen. There's evil out in this world that no storybook could ever fully capture. So what do you want me to do?"

"Well, I was hoping you might come back to the house with me and see if you can…I don't know…do your psychic thing and see if you can't figure out what it was. I know it's asking a lot, but…"

"I'll do it. On one condition."

"You don't have to ask." John looked out the window to where his boys were giggling. He could see Dean, broken arm and all promising to catch Sam as he came off the end of the slide. "I know I've messed up with them, and I don't know that it's going to get better all at once. And I can pretty much guarantee you that we aren't ever going to have a story-book 'meet the Brady's' kind of life, but I know I've gone wrong by them."

"All I want is for you to try, John. Shoot pool instead if you have to go out drinking. Smack a bunch of inanimate balls around a table instead of your two boys around the house. Hell, I bet if you got as good at that as you do smacking them around, you could hustle people out of a lot of money. But don't you go telling anyone that I said that, you hear me?"

"I can try that."

* * *

"Uh-oh, Dean. Dad's coming. You think he's gonna be mad that we were out here being loud?" 

"Oh Sammy, I hope not. Come on, little brother, let's go."

Sam and Dean walked slowly towards their father as he and Missouri came out to meet them. The boys noticed as the psychic slowed down to let John approach them alone, and both had to gulp down a heaping ball of nervousness. Surely the man wouldn't punish them out here in front of someone?

"Are you boys…having fun?"

"Yes sir. We're sorry we were loud. It was my fault, I got Sammy going. I'm sorry."

John knelt to his sons' level and placed a hand on each of their shoulders, cringing himself when he felt, for perhaps the first time in years just how frightened they were of his touch as they both trembled and drew back. He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

"It's all right, Dean. I'm not angry with you for helping your brother have fun. God knows I've done a horrible job of that the last few years."

Dean didn't know what to say; afraid this was some kind of test – some kind of trap.

"Look, I know I've been downright awful to the two of you since your mother died. I don't know what got into me, but I promise you both that I'm going to try to make it better. We're going to be a family again; I'm not going to lose the two of you. Not like I have been doing. You understand me?"

Both boys nodded their heads, but it was plain to see distrust in the older boy's eyes and confusion in the younger one's.

"You don't, I'm sure. But for starters, Sammy, I don't want you to believe anything I've said about it being your fault that Dean doesn't have a mother. I'm sure he's been telling you that for as long as I've been telling you otherwise. We're going to figure out what killed her together, with some help along the way, but it wasn't your fault. And Dean?"

Dean wouldn't look up at his father until John tilted his head so they saw eye-to-eye. Both Winchesters were crying now. Dean's hazel orbs were bright as he finally saw the man that he once knew as 'Daddy' in front of him.

"Yes sir?"

"You're not weak, son. And you've done amazingly with your brother. I told you to protect him at all costs, and you've done nothing but that since your mother died. You're a lot stronger than I am. I don't expect you to forgive me, not for a while at least, I just want you to keep watching out for him, the best way you know how."

"I can do that, sir."

"Daddy?" Sam's voice was quiet and unsure.

"What, son?"

The six-year old leaned in and whispered in his father's ear. "Does this mean I'm not going to get punished tonight?"

"I swear to you, Samuel Winchester. I will never punish you like I was planning on doing ever again. And I'm going to try my damnedest to not hit you ever again."

"And Dean?"

"The both of you. I swear I'm going to try."

"Daddy?"

"What, Sammy?"

The little boy smiled a little. "Does this mean we'll never get punished again at all? Like, having to go to our rooms and stuff?"

"Don't push your luck, mister."

* * *

THE END.

* * *

**Okay, so I know that the school probably would have put in a call to social services, and even if they hadn't, I'm sure that the hospital would have, but it didn't work out with the ending I had in mind, so bear with me...or shoot me an email and I'll be glad to debate it with you. And I know that the turnaround was really abrupt, but I'm also sure that what AU John says and what AU John does are two completely different things and it will take time to turn things around to the relationship you see in the show...I couldn't bring myself to leave the story so AU with John being that abusive, so I had to do something to kind of bring it back to Supernatural-verse...hopefully it worked somewhat...let me know.**


End file.
